


Something deadly within arm's reach

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Control Issues, Double Penetration, First Time, Knifeplay, M/M, Painplay, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's between them is a big, messy knot of control issues, and Sam needs Cas's help to cut through it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something deadly within arm's reach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kissyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissyn/gifts).



> Porn for Kissyn, because porn is the perfect gift for all occasions? Because she deserves some porn for being lovely, anyway. (Also look at how there is no angst tag for once in my life!)

It's almost too hot in this room; it's a summer night with everything closed, every window, every door, inches deep in salt and sealed tight against anything that might come calling. Dean is shirtless, stripped down to his jeans and yet his skin feels like he's wrapped in a blanket - Sam's got him at his elbows with nothing but fingertip contact, ten pads of pressure and the faint, slick pressure of his mouth against Dean's jawline, holding him tighter than iron chain (and Dean would know).

Sam's kisses are soft but he's pushing Dean hard for something. Dean doesn't know what yet, but he can read his brother easier than reading his dad's journal. There's something Sam wants tied up in the way he's being so careful. It's goddamn unsettling. Normally, if they have to lay low for a while they salt the place, load the guns, and fuck like bunnies, hard and fast on any surface they can find as long as they've got something deadly within arm's reach. They don't have time to be precious about it - you never know when something evil's gonna manifest right in the middle of your fun. 

But Sam's kissing deep now, tonguing at the corner of Dean's mouth again and again, sloppy and slow; nipping at the swell of his bottom lip where it's sore cos Dean bit it raw while driving through the night, and he _wants something_. It's so obvious. Dean wants to straight-out ask him what the hell it is, but the rhythm of Sam's wet mouth against his own reminds Dean just how long it's been since they took their time with each other.

Dean wants Sam's attention, sure, but this softness, it's not what he needs. He needs an edge. He needs to know they're armed and dangerous.

This is the only interaction between them that Sam doesn't try to _talk_ about. Dean likes that. He likes being on his hands and knees with the bruise shadows of Sam's hold on him blooming purple where no-one else will see them on his hips and shoulders, and he likes the mindlessness of letting go, and he likes the stink of salt and come and cordite, and he loves, fucking loves, that when he leaves a motel room in his rearview mirror he's leaving all the shit that drives them into bed together in the first place behind as well, at least until the next time. Every time they do this, they're sloughing something bad off like old skin, leaving them clean and new and whole again, except for the clawmarks of Sam's fingernails on his shoulders. But those he likes to keep.

Dean's overheated, but he can't help the shivering twitch of his muscles where Sam's holding him with two hands, like he's fragile, and like he can't escape.

When a third hand touches Dean it startles him, but the second he starts to move Sam grabs him properly, so hard his fingers will drive new bruises in the meat of Dean's forearms, and their kiss turns rough and nasty, teeth and all, for just a second before Dean wrenches himself back enough to look at the person attached to the hand that fits so perfectly into the palmprint scar on his shoulder.

'Cas, could you give us a minute?' he growls, twitching in Sam's hold with the homicidal urges of the really freaking horny. 'Or an hour.' It means 'piss off', but Cas needs actual instructions. Dean gave up thinking anything was weird about an angel of the Lord busting in on him being fucked by his baby brother a long time ago. Something happens often enough, after all, it starts becoming normal. And _normally_ Cas will leave, cool as a cucumber, pretending like he didn't see anything. No big deal.

But, 'Did you bring it?' Sam asks over Dean's shoulder, and Cas's baby blues turn on him instead, solemn and bright.

'I'm never without it,' Cas says, and Dean's got no goddamn idea what they're talking about until Cas's knife slides out of his sleeve into his palm like falling silk, and Sam draws a deep breath at the sight of it, like it's a turn-on all by itself. Which, for Sam, it might be. 

'What the -' Dean says, but Cas cuts across him.

'Do you still require my presence?' he asks Sam, holding the weapon by its blade and offering it up. That's no ordinary pigsticker - that thing's killed demons, killed angels, killed things Dean didn't know were killable and he's a goddamn expert, and he isn't sure at all why it's suddenly the focal point of the room, except his heartrate has changed up a few gears because of it.

'We talked this through,' says Sam, and his voice has dropped like it does when he's fucking and when he's fighting, the two things he does best. 'Let's stick to the plan, yeah?'

He takes Cas's knife. Cas nods and steps back, like he's gonna stand guard, and Sam hefts the heavy steel into a fighting hold, tucked into his fist blade-down, like a part of him, the way it sits so naturally in his grip. Dean's breath shreds in his throat, watching his brother arm himself like this is a fight. Sam's free hand finds the nape of Dean's neck and yanks him in, pulls him close. The pommel of the knife bumps against Dean's ribs, cold enough to make him shiver against the hot curl of Sam's tongue into his mouth and the fact that he can practically feel Cas's stare on him like a physical pressure.

 _Take it_ , every fibre of his goddamn being is telling him. _Take it_ , is what that angelic fire in Cas's stare has always said to Dean, on so many levels. _Fucking take it,_ says Sam's body language, one knee already finding its way like a wedge between Dean's thighs and all his defences.

Dean pushes back hard, though, and gets enough space between him and Sam that he can talk. 'You wanna tell me what this is about, Sammy?' he pants, disciplining his body back into holding him up by itself. 'Why you've got a knife on me and we've got an audience?'

Sam tightens his grip, so Dean may have got his mouth free but he sure as shit isn't going anywhere. The knife's sharp tip starts to press warningly against the crest of Dean's hip, through the denim. 'I'm sick of hurting you, Dean,' he says, which isn't an explanation, not with a weapon in his hands. Not when it's a knife. 

Dean shivers. This is better, fuck, this is _so much better_ than before. 

'You like being in danger,' Cas says from across the room. He's backed off even further, when Dean twists to look at him - standing right by the door. 'We've both seen it. But you have to stop hurting yourself for pleasure, Dean.'

'Alright,' says Dean, still trapped, pinned between Cas's stare and Sam's hands and feeling his cock jerk in his underwear at the idea of _we_ and when Cas says 'pleasure' in that fucking bedroom voice of his. 'I still don't - I'm kinda thinking with my downstairs brain here, fellas. Words of one syllable, yeah?'

'You're gonna get fucked with this knife to your throat,' says Sam, low and wet-dream-dangerous all the way down Dean's spine. 'No more cuts, Dean, no more bruises. You walk out of here in the same shape you walked in … as long as you don't fight.' And he means it, too - it's in his voice, it's in the hard way he holds his body against Dean's. In Sam's hands a knife is the biggest threat of them all - Dean likes guns but Sam, Sam's always preferred a blade. 

'And Cas?' Dean asks, swallowing hard. 'You just gonna watch us, huh? That how you get off?' He's made so many jokes about _junkless angels_ and no-one's ever told him otherwise, maybe it's true - fuck, maybe Cas has been watching them all along, listening in on them 24/7, waiting for the prayers and the requests in between the fights and the hunts, and hearing all the hard, desperate fucking that fills the gaps.

There's a picture, Cas listening in on them. Dean might have thought he'd be scandalised, but not seeing him now, all laser-focus and parted lips.

'I'm here in case this goes too far,' says Cas, eyes hooded, hands fisted at his sides, face straight - a proper little soldier. 'There's no need for me to observe you if you'd rather I didn't - I can turn away. But I won't leave without my blade, and I won't risk either of you hurting yourselves if you get … carried away.'

There's no room to argue in the way he stares at Dean while he's saying it. But Dean doesn't want to - fuck, the furthest thing from his mind right now is getting Cas to go _away_. Not when he looks like that, like - fuck, Dean could get off on the stare alone. 

Sam says, in Dean's ear like it's a secret, 'You want him, don't you.'

Dean jerks like he's been shot. 'Sammy -'

Sam presses in, turns them until he's plastered along Dean's hot, sweaty back, one hand splayed over Dean's hipbone and stomach, the other still pressing the cool metal of Cas's knife against the bare skin stretching over Dean's ribs, and they're both facing Cas in his corner. Sam's showing them off. 'Cas,' he rumbles, and the angel's gaze snaps from Dean's face up, presumably to meet Sam's eyes. 'Get over here.'

'Are you sure?' Cas asks, but he licks his lips.

Sam's voice doesn't waver when he says, 'We talked about this too, remember?' and Dean wonders where they found the time for all this fucking conversation, how they snuck this around him.

Sam trails the still-cold, against all logic, pommel of Cas's knife up Dean's ribcage, and Cas walks up like he's hypnotised.

'Do I get a vote?' Dean manages to ask with Cas zeroing in on him.

'No,' says Sam with a dark little laugh. 'Do you really even want one?' He takes his hands off Dean and Cas slides right on in, and if anyone knows how to hold Dean tight, it's Castiel. 'Get him on the bed,' Sam says to Cas.

Before Dean can do a thing, he's flat on his back and Cas is on top, face serious as Hell and just as hot. 'Don't struggle,' he warns Dean. So Dean kicks up just a little bit, trying to get a knee between Cas's legs. Cas stares down at him and the pressure increases, and Dean swallows hard. 

'Hey, man,' he says, and Cas does break into a little smile but his weight doesn't shift. Fuck, Dean wants to kiss him, but he's too far away.

'He's not going to let you go 'til I say,' says Sam, and Dean wrenches his head to the side, breaking Cas's stare only to get caught in Sam's. 

Sam's testing Cas's knife on the pad of his thumb. He's nicked the skin there so often - sparring, sealing blood-spells, freaking paper cuts while doing research, everything - that it's rough and calloused and Dean knows intimately the feel of it smoothing over every inch of his body. Now Sam's rasping it over the edge of Cas's knife. He looks at Dean and smiles. Such a sweet, innocent, Sammy smile, so goddamn happy and so goddamn dangerous. 

Dean smiles too, can't help it. Because yes, fucking yes, fucking _this_. Because Dean's a kinky fuck and Sam's hot when he's packing, and Dean's flashing back to every time he saw his little Sammy pull a knife and knew that they were gonna come out of the fight okay. Sam's had him in alleyways after battles, blood spatter on his shirt and blades still in his hands or in his belt or in his boots, and fighting or fucking, Sam's the master of shoving in hard, twisting until you feel it, holding you tight until the end. 

'Come up here,' says Castiel in Dean's ear, warm breath making him shudder, and he flips them over almost effortlessly while Dean is still getting a dizzying eyefucking from Sam, drags himself into a sitting position with Dean lounging in his lap. The knot of Cas's tie is somewhere about Dean's left ear. It's like being roped up - Cas's feet are bare and he's tucked them under Dean's ankles and used them to lever Dean's legs open, his hands are like manacles around Dean's wrists, held down either side of their hips, and any other person, any other day, it's a hold Dean could break like snapping a popsicle stick, but not Cas. 'Let me hold you,' Cas says. He mutters it quietly. And again, any other person - that would sound like a line, or like dirty talk, but Cas is really asking. 

'Yeah,' Dean says, licking his lips, looking up at Sam, who's right at the foot of the bed now, silvery knife back in that backhanded fighting hold, pommel peeking out from under his thumb. It's long enough to almost parallel the smooth line of his forearm. 'Fuck.' Dean licks his lips again, starving and empty inside.

'This is a good look on you, Dean,' Sam says, grinning. 'How you doing there, Cas?'

'I believe I have him in hand,' Cas replies, calm like the eye of a storm, and hard as nails where Dean's leaning against him. Dean doesn't know how he can talk like this is just another day at the office. 'You may need to remove his clothes, if you want to proceed much further.'

'Why don't you do it?' Sam suggests. Dean feels Cas's breath hitch in his chest. Sam catches Dean's eye and raises his eyebrow, and _goddamnit, Sam_. Cas never did get round to handing in his V-card, Dean's pretty sure. And he hasn't moved or said a word, so Dean says, 'If you don't want to -' and then shuts up fast, because that's Cas's hand on his zipper. And Sam winks at Dean, and gets on the bed, and gets all up in Dean's space too, and Dean's almost forgotten about the knife -

_\- the knife -_

\- until it kisses his throat, right between the ridges of his Adam's apple. Suddenly everything is in sharp focus, a hundred miles an hour, and Dean gapes, gasps, can't swallow or he'll cut himself and fuck, Cas's hand is in his pants right now, right in his pants, and Sam's in between his spread wide legs and he can't move -

'Careful,' says Sam to Cas, the corners of his eyes crinkling, as Dean stares up at him. 'He'll go off like a rocket.'

'Dean,' says Cas, gravelly in Dean's ears, 'if you lift yourself up a fraction, I will be able to remove your trousers and underwear.'

"Lift up a fraction" sounds real easy unless you've got a razor-sharp blade literally at your throat, and Sam isn't exactly faking this. If Dean moves wrong, he'll bleed for it. He licks his lips and watches Sam's pupils dilate and puts his weight back onto Cas through his shoulderblades 'cos the bastard can take it, tightens his abs, and lifts his hips. 

He keeps expecting the sting of the blade and it doesn't come. Sam lets out a long breath as Cas manages to get jeans, belt, boxers down under the curve of Dean's ass, so that Dean can settle down again and Sam can drag them the rest of the way off. And then Dean's naked, and Cas and Sam are both still dressed, and that's hot and all but Dean wants some freaking skin. Mostly because if he shoots his load like a teenager now he'll never be able to look himself in a ceiling-mounted mirror ever again. 

Sam knows it too, the fucker, because he gives Dean just enough time to calm himself down a little and then says, 'I'm gonna need you to do the next part, Cas.' He eases back, the knife-blade relaxing to lie flat against his forearm rather than flicked out against Dean's throat, and Cas pushes Dean forward until Sam's sitting back on his knees, Dean's basically on all fours, still looking up at Sam, and Cas is behind him. And Dean's dick is leaking like a faucet into the rucked-up sheets because he can hear Cas shifting around back there and Sam's got his planning face on.

 _Fucking Sam and his fucking plans,_ Dean growls inside his own brain, as Sam lets Cas's knife prick out towards him again, the cords in Sam's arm looking like rope, keeping everything under control. This isn't the thin edge of the blade threatening to open Dean a new breathing-hole, now - this is the point of it skittering a hair away from the pulse in his carotid, just under the flex of his jaw. He starts to think about how he could get out of this, how he could hammer a fist down on Sam's extended wrist and knock the blade away long enough to probably get his weight onto Sam's chest - Sam's not balanced well, sitting like this - and Sam edges the point of the knife until it lights up a tiny silver spark on Dean's skin and Dean's knees almost give out.

He's starting to swim in the adrenaline. He really wants to get his mouth on Sam, but he can't lower his head without getting himself punctured. Part of him is still actually considering it despite how fucking stupid that is. He licks his lips again, starving for a taste. He's opened Sam's zipper with his teeth before, he could probably reach from here - 

There's the noise of a drawer closing that almost startles Dean into lacerating himself, and Cas leans into Dean from behind, something clutched in his fist, brushing Dean's skin. 

'I'm not sure how you want me to proceed,' Cas says, rumbling through his shirt buttons into Dean's spine. 'Logistically.'

 _Logistically_ , Dean wants Cas's fingers up his ass and Sam's cock in his mouth, but it's clear that Cas isn't asking him. Sam taps the point of the knife thoughtfully against Dean's throat. 'Turn him back over,' he says. 'Then you can see what you're doing.' He pulls back, back off the bed, and takes the blade with him. Dean pretty much sags into the mattress for a second, breath rushing out of him and being dragged back in now that he doesn't have to calculate for the movement of his own throat, but he doesn't get time to relax because Cas flips him like a pancake.

His head flops off the end of the bed and there's Sam, upside down, free hand pressing the bulge in his jeans. Maybe Dean's gonna get his way after all. 'Ready for this, Dean?' Sam asks, twisting Cas's knife between his fingers. 

'Born ready,' Dean retorts. This isn't his first rodeo, and he wishes Sam would just get with the program.

But then Cas says 'Good,' and there are fingers at Dean's hole and Sam steps up and kneels down to cradle Dean's head and lay that cold knifeblade flat over his throat again. 

'Watch,' Sam says, his breath in Dean's ear. 'He's gonna take such good care of you. But you gotta watch.' Dean wants to swallow, he's got such a fucking catch in his throat, but there's that warning pressure of the knife. Sam won't cut Dean - but if Dean makes the wrong move there's no way he won't cut himself. It makes him itch, makes him crave, knowing how fast this could all spiral out of control. 'See?' Sam croons. 'We know what you need, Dean.'

Castiel is watching him from between his thighs, just petting slow, gentle circles at the edge of Dean's hole. Dean can't help the aborted twitch of his hips every time one of Castiel's fingertips nudges inside him. 'Fuck, Cas,' Dean mutters, closing his eyes for a second against the searchlight of Cas's stare. 'Get it done,' he demands.

'No,' says Cas. Dean didn't think the angel's voice had any more octaves to drop but he's found some, that _no_ rumbles like an earthquake, takes down even more of Dean's walls with it 'cos Dean's knees wanna sag even further open as the harmonics rumble down his spine. 'I want to do this properly. All the sounds I've heard you make before, Dean, I want to hear you make them again. For me.' And he slides a finger home to the first knuckle, not even half an inch and it's still a shock. 

Sam's breath hisses between his teeth. Dean has to bite his lip, make something hurt so he doesn't lose control, but _fuck_ and _Cas_ and Sam kneels up further, takes the weight of Dean's head on his shoulder, pillows him there and tightens his grip on the knife.'This working for you, Dean?' he asks, so much control in his voice. Dean shivers, the sharp edge dances on his skin because of it, and he _knows_ there aren't too many ways for this to end without him hurting for it. And he knows that Sam won't hurt him. 

So he'll only have himself to thank for whatever way this goes down. And that's some kind of heady shit right there.

'Good,' he rasps, closing his eyes again, disobeying and loving it. The world shrinks - Cas's wet, smooth, fingers licking at him inside, around, in and out and Cas's warm breath on his knee, and Sam behind him like a wall, hot like molten metal. Both of them breathe almost in time with each other, Dean notices muzzily, and both in time with Cas's fingers. 

Dean's own breathing is stilted, whining through his teeth. He wants so bad to roll into Cas's hands, to get himself fucked on those wide, rough fingers if no-one else is gonna fuck him. His spine wants to crack, his hips want to kick, recoil against Cas pulling his trigger. If he moves wrong, he'll cut his own throat. 

'Give him three,' says Sam, and Dean has to lock every joint he has to stop himself from arching. Cas makes a noise that sounds like chocolate in the back of his throat and Dean wants to beg. God. He wants them to stop fucking teasing him. Get it done, fucking take him, one each end - or both at once the same end, he'd take it, he'd want it, not like he's never thought about it - either Cas was lying about his experience or he's been watching other people real goddamn close, christ that's good - 

Dean's hands knot in the sheets under him, and Sam's laughing, quiet in his ear. 'Got your motor revving yet?' he asks. 'You mean that about _both_? Huh, Dean?' and was Dean saying all that shit out loud?

'Yes,' says Cas. His eyes are hooded deeper and darker than Dean's ever seen them before, in the shadow of Dean's thighs - he's low on the bed and Dean can't help but see how close his red mouth is to everywhere Dean wants it. 'You were,' he says. 'And we liked it. Tell us more. Tell us _everything._ '

Dean would rather show them. He's half trying to work out how much pressure it'd take Cas's knife to do him serious hospital-grade damage and if he could move fast enough to just get nicked, twist and roll and get Sammy on the floor under him and in him and ride him like a prize stallion, or maybe go the other way, rip that fucking suit off Cas and suck him down. Cas'd give it to him right, he knows it, can feel it - catch Dean's head between his hands and fuck his face 'til he feels the choke coming. 

But Dean can't do any of it, because Sam's got him caught too good, because there's no safe leverage against the razor edge of Heaven. 

So he opens his mouth instead, lets it all come out. 'Both at once,' he says, and can't swallow hard enough against the sudden rush of his mouth watering at the idea. 'Wanna be between you. Get you both deep, fuck, taste you in the back of my throat, so tight I can't breathe with it -'

'Yes,' says Cas, four fingers in now, crawling up Dean's body like he can't help himself, and Dean is almost angry at himself for not getting Cas naked, why the fuck is Cas not naked? Dean almost forgets and tries to reach for him, but Sam slams his free hand down on Dean's shoulder quick enough that Dean can't move a muscle. 'We can give you that,' says Cas, fingers moving in Dean like he'll never stop. He's leaning forward, free hand braced beside Dean's waist, tie dragging in the wet spot on Dean's belly and why, _why_ is that so hot?

Sam's chest is heaving behind Dean like he's running a marathon. Cas's breath is washing over Dean's cock, and he's freeing his fingers like he has his next move planned. 'Yeah,' Sam says. 'We can give you whatever you want.' His fingers spasm around the knife's grip, over Dean's collarbone, before he draws it away and shoves Dean full onto the mattress, into Cas's space. 'Get him naked,' he says to Dean like he's a fucking mind reader. 

Dean's on Cas like a werewolf on a hooker, shirt buttons spray like blood out of an artery, pants off, down, gone, Dean's cock touches against Cas's accidentally and they both gasp into it. Dean can't stop moving, scrabbling at Cas's cuffs, wanting him properly bare but too fuck-stupid to work out the _logistics_ \- and then the hot-like-Hell naked stretch of Sam spreads over the skin of Dean's back, pulls him up to kneel like Cas is his altar, and that cold, silver kiss of sharpness is back at his throat. 'Easy there,' Sam says, rough and hot for it. 'I thought you wanted us both?'

Dean can feel Sam bump against where he's slick, open from Cas's hard work, feels his own dick twitch again, wetness spilling out against the cold air, and freezes. Oh fuck yes. 'Sammy,' he pants. 'Jesus, fuck, _Sammy _-'__

'Good,' says Sam, like a purr. Cas is sprawled back on his elbows in the rucked-up sheets and what's left of his suit and shirt, mouth parted, and he's grinning too. 'Now get on board, Dean. You're going for a ride.' 

Dean's lungs lock up for a moment. He moves careful, takes it slow, 'cos _knife_ and _Cas's first time_ and 'cos he knows he's gonna get a hell of a lot more up there before they're done and you gotta pace yourself, right? Sam gives him enough space to move, kneel up over Cas's hips and settle himself down, find the head of Cas's cock with his hole, sex-braille and Cas's hands guiding him, and push. 

' _Unnnnh -_ ' says Cas, the least syllables Dean thinks he's ever made, and that's something, he's made a messenger of God speechless, and he'd gloat but he's short on words himself, each increment of Cas's dick sinking in pushing him further. It aches like everything good aches, deep inside. And Sam's got him grounded on the point of a knife. 

'That's right,' Sam grunts, and he's sweating, his hair is lank and it falls into Dean's eyes from where Sam's leaning his forehead against Dean's temple. 'Take him in, Dean, you're gonna be so good for him, good for us, I know you can do it.'

'Yeah,' Dean says, bottoming out, thighs tense like steel cable. 'Shit, Sam - ' the angle's too good, the pressure's too much, Cas's spread underneath him making noises like he's high, hips rocking into Dean enough to make the knife scrape, and to do that Sam must be losing it too or he'd never let it cut that close - 'Sammy, please, need you too -'

Sam makes a belly-noise and lifts the knife. Before Dean can work out what's happened it's buried three inches into the wall, flicked straight into the center of the stupid tacky little embroidery the motel has hanging over the bed, and Sam's got both hands on Dean, finally, _fucking finally_ , wrapped around his hips, bending him forward just a little - Cas groans again, deep and liquid - 

'Fingers,' Sam mutters to himself, the way he sometimes mumbles 'Salt, salt, salt,' under his breath when he's looking for it.

'Yeah,' says Dean again, 'cos yes, fingers please. Sam's got good fingers, great fingers, long and thick and clever. Dean knows them inside him better than almost anything. And Sam gives him what he wants, just about - one long slide of extra pressure stretching him, two gently pulling at the rim of him around Cas's cock, and then Sam nudges himself up. 

Dean's knees turn to water. Cas's hands slide up his chest, pinch one nipple soft, hard, then the other, and Dean jerks like he's been tasered and the head of Sam's cock makes it in, a harsh elastic move. Dean's body feels warm, bruised and loved to distraction and damage. He winces a laugh out, because Sam is still going too slow, too soft. 

'You ever gonna give me what I want, Sammy?' Dean asks, and tries to brace. 

Cas's eyes slam shut when Sam gets all the way in, and Dean melts back against his little brother and tries to breathe. Both. In. Fuck, it's so much, and Cas is pushing himself up into a sitting position, 'til he can cradle Dean too, and he's caught properly now, snared between them. He can't help but test it, try and struggle, pinned and impaled and _full_ and Sam's nudging into him just that bit further, and kissing Cas over Dean's shoulder, biting Cas's bottom lip like it tastes of something good. 

'What do you need, Dean?' Cas asks, strained, glassy-eyed, when he pulls free of Sam's mouth. He's gonna blow his load any moment now, Dean can tell, he's just hanging on for the ride now. 'Please, tell me what you need.' He's almost begging. 

'Come,' Dean groans, trying to keep as much friction going as he can, shaking from muscle fatigue and how much he needs to come as well. 'Cas, you hear me? Come for me, come for us, Cas -'

Cas's eyes roll right up and he jerks hard into Dean's body. Sam moans, loud against Dean's ear and Dean bites his lip hard enough to taste metal. He doesn't wanna come yet, he doesn't, he can't, not 'til Sam - and Cas falls back to the mattress and everything is wet, slick like a black-iced road between Dean's thighs. 

Sam shunts forward, Cas grabs frantically for Dean's hips to steady him and gets Sam's fingers too. 'Fuck, Sam, Cas,' Dean pants, dizzy and full and stretched, paper-thin around the other two and he's tried so freaking hard but he can't hold on any longer. 'I'm gonna - guys, I'm gonna -'

Castiel reaches behind his own head with a groan and a stretch and yanks his knife from where Sam buried it in the drywall and the little _bless this room_ embroidery. 'Here,' he rasps. Sam's grin curves tight against Dean's sweat-wet throat, and he takes the knife.

Fuck. It slides right up where it belongs, along the tendons of Dean's throat, almost pricking at the point of his jaw. _Fuck_. 

'Come on, Dean,' Cas says, arching under him, still half-mast and acting like he's gonna be good to go again real fast. 'Dean, come for us -' echoing Dean's words, like Dean _taught him oh fuck, fuck -_

Sam tightens his grip, pants 'Now, Dean, now, _now_ -' and Dean's gone, white-out, white-hot, and white-wet across Cas's chest. Sam's jerking inside him, groaning, and he drops the knife and it's done. They're done. Cas is licking something that shines off his lips. Dean is panting, sparking adrenaline to the tips of his fingers, toes still curling. 

Sam eases him off them, and down onto Cas's chest. 'Oh come on, man,' Dean protests, mumbling into Cas's skin because he's too well-fucked to shift even his face. 'The wet spot? Dude, seriously.'

'You got a problem, clean it up yourself,' Sam says, getting up. Dean's jealous of the fact that he can, y'know, move. 'You made it, remember?'

'I am very comfortable,' says Cas. He curls one arm around Dean's waist, and picks up the knife with the other. Dean lets his head rise and fall with Cas's breathing, and watches the yellow motel lights glint off the blade.

Sam gets a washcloth. 

It's still freaking hot in this room, and it _stinks_ of sex and the familiar salt and cordite undertones, and Sam crawls back onto the bed and starts to get everyone cleaned up. He kisses Cas in passing, softly, and smacks Dean's ass, and Dean smiles, sighs into Cas's skin. 

Sam curls up along the side of them, and curves his hand over Cas's on the knife.

The blade ends up under the pillow, under Cas's head, and Dean and Sam both end up with their hands jammed in there too, clutching the hilt of it, and Dean feels _safe_. They're walled in salt and tangled in each other and for once in his life Dean isn't looking over his shoulder. He's got everything he cares about here, safe in one place. 

Maybe Hell's coming for Sam, maybe Heaven's coming for Dean the same. But they can't get in, and even if they could, Dean's prepared.

Like this, he's got all the weapons he needs.


End file.
